


Trussed

by aurora_ff



Category: Black Widow (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bottom!Nat, Caning, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Flogging, Fluffy Ending, Kink Exploration, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Restraints, Top!Bucky, Tumblr Prompt, buckynat - Freeform, buckynat smutathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_ff/pseuds/aurora_ff
Summary: For the 2016 Buckynat Smutathon promoted by fuckyeahbuckynatasha.tumblr.com. Wednesday = BDSM Day.Summary: Natasha wants Bucky to help her get out of her head for a while as they are laying low in Seattle. Bucky is nothing if not a good boyfriend.Original anon prompt:"Ooooo, could you please wrote some Dom Bucky? Maybe they go to a secret BDSM club! ? Perhaps post winter soldier when Nat isn't so young anymore.. Thanks!"





	

Natasha had built dozens and dozens of covers over the years in her line of work. The Red Room had prized their agents to be chameleons, and Romanoff was one of the best. It shouldn’t have surprised Bucky, crashing together at one of her safehouses in Seattle for a week or so to lay low post-mission, that professional dominatrix was one of them. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him, until it did.

In the closet of one Madame Amelia Crosse, she had a significant collection of fetish costumes kept meticulously in garment bags. He got a small kick imagining what she looked like in them.

By the size and heft, he had thought the duffle also in the closet was filled with some of her rifles, and that he’d be a gentleman while she was away getting groceries and clean them for her. Upon unzipping it, he discovered instead the ropes and leather cuffs and whips and other things that Bucky had no description for except that he felt his pulse quicken at the site of them.

The cuffs….being cuffed down while the searing currents came again and again...until there was nothing to be felt at all.

Natasha found him in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, fighting the roiling in his stomach at the thought of having no way to move...no way to fight while he was brought into line, again and again with just a few uttered phrases.

“Hey,” she offered softly, reading his tenseness.

He frowned, rubbing his lips briefly. “So people pay to be tortured? They actually like it?”

“The pay keeps it professional. And it’s not about the pain. Not always,” she explained as she sat down beside him. “Sometimes it’s about the surrender of control. Letting go and riding the wave of endorphines. If you’re the sub -- the one on the receiving end -- you surrender yourself to the care of someone you trust to take you there and bring you back again. It’s...it can be the safest feeling in the world.”

God. She had such a way with words. “So you…?” He didn’t know what he was exactly asking.

“Amelia tops. Just what you’d expect from a Black Widow.” Natasha reached and felt her hand over what seemed to be some sort of large, bulbous massager on the end of a control stick. “I like it the other way around, truth be told. Getting out of my own head when I’m always having to watch over my shoulder? It’s bliss. Just doesn’t happen often in the spy business.”

Bucky knew she loved her hair fisted, her body pinned, the way she soaked around him when he’d wrap his hand as delicately as he could around the pillar of her neck as he thrust. Watching her dissolve into her own pleasure, moaning in his arms until she was weak with it.

Alright, _that_ recollection was incredible. He felt his cock swell and twitch at the memories, newly forged, in their reunion.

Gathering up his courage, he cleared his throat and itched the back of his neck. “What if I...what if we?...Um. Would you like me to try?” He couldn’t have that kind of stuff done to him -- too many flashbacks of the Soldier’s compliance with orders -- but Buck was intrigued by the notion of giving her that described blessed release from her own paranoia for whatever few hours he could.

She smiled and rose beside him only to straddle his lap. “I’d thought you’d never ask.” She extracted what seemed to be a horse-whip of some kind from the bag-of-implements, holding it between them. “But first, you’ll need to know a bit of what you’re doing.”

* * *

Gags. Safewords. Spreader bars. Ropes and suspension. The equipment used in 'the lifestyle' was at extensive as his arsenal.

Buck visited the odd corners of the internet he didn’t think he’d ever explore.

Natasha and he talked, negotiated, about what they liked and didn’t. What they’d do and wouldn’t.

“Humiliation’s not my kink,” she told him.

“I couldn’t, anyway,” he confessed. “Even if you wanted me to.” Buck loved her too much, cherished her, was amazed by her. He couldn’t call her filthy and degrading things, even in whatever ‘play’ or ‘scene’ they were working up to. “I also can’t...I can’t cut you.”

He would never be the cause of her bleeding before him again, sporting another scar.

Natasha shrugged. “That’s fine. The club doesn’t permit bloodplay anyway. Too much cleanup.”

She had described the underground BDSM club early on in this, just a few days ago. They had just ended a short session with a flogger in the apartment/safehouse, with Natasha tied and bent over the couch as Buck reddened her thighs and ass and back to a rosy hue. He had just lost it after she gave out a series of small, begging cries. He took her right there, unzipping his pants and rutting till they both got off, kissing her heated and tenderized skin at her shoulders.

Christ. She wasn’t kidding. This was heady stuff.

“They also don’t let us fuck, do they?” he asked, cuddled up with her in bed in shortly after, a denouement of any intensely physical scene called ‘after-care’. 

“Nothing penetrative,” she confirmed, drowsily running her fingers through the lengths of his hair, and gazing softly at him as if he was the center of her universe. “It’s not technically a sex club.”

He gathered that hand to his lips, kissing it chivalrously and chastely. “Then, Darlin’, I’ll just have to get inventive.”

* * *

They planned their club personas meticulously. Russian nationals having a romp in the club scene. 

Buck buttoned up his maroon silk dress-shirt, topped off by a black leather over-vest and thin, doe-skin black gloves. Natasha had gotten him a silvery-toned neck-tie. He slicked his long hair back with a stiffening product not-so-different from the pomade that he used in the ‘40s. It was a little over the top, in his opinion, but Natasha assured they’d fit right in.

Natasha herself was corsetted with a lovely patterned damask satin in black roses on red, a vinyl mini-skirt clinging nicely to her buttocks. The heels made her walk a certain way that would turn plenty of heads, his own included. A ruby necklace and drop earrings completed her ensemble. She also wore a severe black wig to obscure her true identity. Not that anyone expected Black Widow to ever be a submissive in the situation, but it was an extra precaution.

Buck picked out just what he wanted from Madame Amelia’s collection for the night. He forbade Natasha from seeing just what was in store for her at the club, and just handed her her trench-coat.

Well after dark, a cab picked them up several blocks from the safehouse. Buck rested a hand just above her bare knee.

Natasha grinned, but did not make eye-contact. There was already a bit of color showing on her cheeks. By appearances, they were close to the same age. Buck still felt like a bit of a dirty old man and was fine with it, licking his lip briefly with anticipation.

There was no advertisement on the door to the club. No name. Just a street number and a bouncer that opened up to a long-windowless corridor and then down industrial, metal stairs to the the club proper below. Techno music with a thudding beat and electric melodies echoed down the space.

With his left hand, he carried his equipment. With his right, he placed his palm at the small of her back possessively, only taking it away to flash their fake IDs, pay the cover-fee, and check their coats.

“Have you ever played here before?” the attendant asked, a woman with plenty of makeup and piercings.

“I have,” his companion replied softly in accented English, just barely over the music.

“Several rooms are available. Just ask one of the DMs if you need any help.”

However much of a role they were in, Bucky could not do anything else but case the space and its clientele, numbering about three or four dozen in all.

The main floor of the vaulted, industrially-spare space was dimly lit, except for a small stage that was empty for the moment except for a chrome suspension bar, chains and a hoist. There was another sub-balcony from there.

A bar that served only non-alcoholic drinks had several patrons sitting at it. Buck took in one, a balding man naked but some sort of belts and rings around his semi-flacid cock attached to a collar around his neck, kneeling humbly aside the stool where his Dom petted him on the head lazily as he socialized.

Various states of dress and undress. Various ages and colors and shapes. In the maze-like side rooms, there was all sorts of furniture: crosses and cages and racks and frames with anchor points to string up the sub with all sorts of lashing.

A wooden chair with its own straps was displayed next to a mirror, and Natasha must have seen the leaden expression he got, because she steered him away by tugging on his bag. “Let’s try another room.”

They sat for a while on the edge of a scene involving wax dripped on two tied-up women, drooling and moaning around their gags, writhing as the taught ropes between their legs see-sawed in their struggles, knots placed carefully as to grind against their clits. 

Christ, that was hot. And inventive.

“You know,” Buck whispered in Russian to his lover on his lap, his hand squeezing her breast around the boning of her corset. He was half-stiff, but could do little about it thanks to the ‘no wanking yourself off’ rule. “You’re gonna be up soon. Lay you out and mess you up. Even worse than those two.”

“I’m yours. Whenever and however,” she responded softly, turning even further into him, shifting again to hide the boner he sported under his dark slacks until he got his head together. It occurred to him that this type of public club was one big foreplay session; that probably much more occurred afterwards in hotel suites and private basements.

As their dom released the two ladies and toweled them off, the small, observing crowd of about eight or nine began to break up. Buck noticed several eyes linger on his companion as they passed.

It was the moment to make his play.

Bucky reached down to unzip the bag next to him easily with his left, while still holding Natasha around the waist with his right.

“Hold up your hands,” he ordered to her in English, pulling out the padded leather cuffs.

She obeyed, her eyebrows lifting a little in surprise.

He dangled the empty cuffs towards a bearded stranger that he had marked through eavesdropping of having some clue. “If you would be so kind,” His thumb bit into Natasha’s hip as he then opened a side pocket. “Make it tight. She likes to squirm out of these. Fucking escape artist.”

“You could, you know --” the man said as he buckled one snug over Natasha’s left wrist, “--train her to hold still, no matter what.”

As the stranger finished with the other, Bucky grinned as he extracted the chain lead and snapped it to the D-rings on her cuffs. “I rather like the bit of fight in her.” He grasped her chin with his gloved hand, turning her face to him rather than gaze at the other man. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

She nodded wordlessly against his fingers, her pupils wide in this low light. She stretched and balled her hands slowly, testing the snugness of sheepskin and leather around her fine wrists and forearms that much more often bore her Widow’s weapons. He dropped her chin only after he swept her ample, stained lips with his leather-clad thumb.

Buck patted Natasha’s ass in such a way that she knew without further direction to stand up. He let the end of the lead clatter to the floor while he brought the bag up to the chair and zipped it closed again. He tossed it over one shoulder while he took up the chain and slipped it over his other, giving it a good tug. Natasha followed him close behind, her arms stretched high.

To the anonymous man who was innocent of the fact that he got to restrain one of the world’s greatest assassins without repercussions, Bucky remarked in his fake Russian accent: “I doubt she’ll fight much tonight, but one can never tell.”

He realized, as he paraded her through the club up the grated metal stairway that lead to the small balcony, that many were eyeing the raven-haired beauty and her dom. Even in a city as large as Seattle, those regular to the Scene’s clubs must be fairly known to each other. Natasha and he were a new dish to be savored, two incredibly attractive people and their mystery adding more spice to the savoring.

Buck found what he wanted there in the center of the space and studied it further. The apparatus was a padded sawhorse of sorts with eyes drilled into the sturdy dark wood at strategic places, just wide enough to be straddled or ridden. The frame was bolted to the floor. A thick metal ring dangled from reinforced beams just above while a couple of stage-style lamps pooled light to the center of the balcony. 

He could smell the faint odor of disinfectant from when the vinyl covering the apex of it had been wiped down recently. Good.

He dropped his bag of equipment heavily at the foot of the thing and tugged at his companion. “Mount it,” he commanded.

Despite having no hands free, Natasha did so as graceful as a gymnast, the sawhorse spreading her legs and rucking up her miniskirt. He circled around to face her, her eyes tracking him, her lips holding a faint smile. He slipped the lead through one eye-bolt at the far end of the bench as if he simply meant to keep it there out of the way while he considered his next action. 

As he came around her other side, he let his gloved right hand trail up her knee to her thigh, slowly. The caress now passed up her hip, over the edge of her corset.

Natasha relaxed a little, half closing her eyes.

She only got in half of her next breath before Bucky -- in such a fast movement as to almost be inhuman -- slammed her torso down on the thing chest-first with a hard shove between her shoulderblades. 

She exhaled sharply only to have him tug at the end of the lead with almost as much force, stretching her sinuous arms out to the end of the bench. Prone as she was, he then reached into her corset to tease out the mound of her right breast just out from its satin constricture.

He rolled a nipple till she squirmed, half-grinding herself against the covered rigidity of the apparatus. “Much better not to have all that hidden away. The best of you.”

Tying the tightened lead off temporarily, he knelt to unzip his bag and gape it open, careful to keep it out of her range of vision, even as she twisted her head around each of her shoulders in turn trying to glimpse and anticipate what was next.

In the shadows around them, he was aware of movement and sound, of club patrons closing in for the display.

He found the eyeless leather mask he had packed, sliding it over Natasha’s wig gently, yet securing it tightly. He could have gone for the latex hood in the collection instead, but he so wanted to hear her every utterance, no matter how small.

Blindfolded, all Natasha could do was wait, anticipating. He tugged at her hips, drawing her ass just over the very edge of the horse. Methodically, he secured her knees with loop after loop of rope and did away with the chain lead in favor of parting and refastening her cuffs using more cordage. Occasionally, he’d lightly whip random parts of her with the ends of the rope as he worked, just to keep her alert and warm her up for what was to come.

She’d struggle lightly, testing her bonds, but seemed to be otherwise perfectly content stretched out before him.

Finished with her wrists, he bent over to her, and whispered in her ear. “You’re mine, ‘Tasha. Only mine. Nothing else matters.”

He returned to her rear, and with both hands pushed the miniskirt up over her hips, revealing the round globes of her bottom, bisected by a strip of lace panties.

He pressed his fingers against the fabric, rubbing her bare lips through the lace as he spoke. “Such a beautiful ass,” he told her in Russian, figuring out the voyeurs in the perimeter would get his meaning well enough. “But I need more. Are you going to give me more, my dear?”

Natasha let out a small nod, a faint “Da!”, doing what she could to press back against his ministrations. Even though the layers of his glove, he could feel her radiate heat, detect the beginnings of her slick.

From a pocket in his vest, Buck took out a folding knife. “That pleases me. But you have to remember, though…” He slid the edge of the knife delicately between her panties and the dip between her cheeks so that she could feel the metal graze her skin in its most delicate areas. She trembled but held stock-still.“...you don’t get a choice.” 

With a single stroke he parted the delicate fabric, the tatters snapping around her waist.

“Did you hear what I said?” He didn’t raise his voice. He was as cool as his codename.

“I don’t get a choice,” she repeated, pressing her cheek against the horse, just as he stooped for the next instrument, drawing it out silently. There were murmurs around him as a narrow bamboo cane came out.

“So very smart,” he offered in approval, walking around the bench again slowly. “But that one was easy. I _gave_ you that one. You’re going to need to do more for me, sweet.”

Natasha swallowed, shifting a little. Waiting.

“Tell me how many people do you sense with you now?” he asked, returning to gaze at the curves of her backside, the deceptive strength of her thighs.

As Black Widow, she had long attuned her senses to make out noises of threats in the dark. She cocked her head, listening for the shuffle of feet, the exhale of breath or hushed words.

“Fifteen,” she decided.

“Wrong.”

The cane sung through the air as the word came out of his mouth, striking her on her left buttock.

Even with all her training to endure discomfort, the shock of it caused her to cry out, arch against her bonds.

“Try again,” he commanded. 

This was a cruel game, she must be thinking. Still, she licked her lips and guessed once more.

“Thirteen.”

A second lash joined the first, crisscrossing at a slight angle. A nice upside-down V of angry red against the smoothness of her ivory skin. She only whimpered this time, but her legs began trembling. 

Buck began tapping the tip the cane over her bare shoulders, as if impatient. “Guess again.” He gave her a good long minute.

“I don’t --” She bit back her argument. She didn’t have a choice.

He became aware that there was a part of him that wanted her to give her safeword; the guilty part of him that never really went away. But he also didn’t want the ghosts of handlers-past to win. He wanted to turn the tortures great and small on their heads. He wanted to be sure he could, after the brutality the Soldier inflicted for decades, still have _her_.

“Please,” Natasha entreated from her bonds. “Give me a clue. Please.”

“Less than thirteen, I promise you.” he bit back. “Focus.”

She began chewing on her lip, turning her head from side-to-side as if to get a better read on the bodies she could not see. He let her have some time, to let the circumstances of her helplessness do its work in the most instinctual part of her brain.

“Guess now,” Buck ordered, standing just to the side.

“Eig---Ahhh!” Her body strained and looked for release, her chest heaved. The third lash he had delivered parallel to the ground, joining the two other strips of angered flesh in what looked like a crude A. She wouldn’t be able to sit for days without feeling it.

A kinder dom may have switched to marking the other cheek, but Bucky had his purpose.

She was beginning to slick the sawhorse with her sweat as she went slack and resigned. An impossible task, guessing how many faces stared at them. Trying to figure out when and where he would strike next.

“Tell me,” he prompted again, gentler this time. “How many souls here have your undivided attention?”

He didn’t wait for her blubbered answer this time, as she was expecting. A fourth mark joined the others, precisely struck as only someone trained to kill with all manner of weapons could have landed.

She clenched her hands and returned to pressing her forehead into the padding. This time as Bucky circled her, he paused to kneel and guide her chin towards him with the press of the cane against her cheek. She gave a shuddering sob.

With one hand, he unbuckled the blackout mask she wore, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Natasha blinked at him, his face, just a foot or so from her own. Her lashes clung with tears and her makeup was an utter mess. Still, she stared at him.

“One,” she finally choked. “One.”

He smiled just slightly. “And who is that One?”

“You,” she breathed. “Only you.”

“My beauty,” he offered approvingly, swiping her tears away from her cheeks with the back of his hand. She melted, nuzzled into his touch as far as she could, all trussed up as she was. Buck entertained the notion of staying with her like this for hours, ignoring the others in the club until closing time was called, worshipping her strength.

Yet the work he intended was not complete. “I must strike you once more so you never, ever forget. You will be brave.” He said this in English. She nodded slightly as he stood once more, taking in a deep breath. Her eyes were half-glassed over.

“I will count down from three. You’ve been so good, I’ll allow you to prepare this time.”

“One….two…” He gave a light tap to mark where he would strike last. Natasha’s whole body tensed and he caught a flash of her clenched eyes.

“Three!” As the cane landed, she threw back her head, and only a strangled grunt escaped her clenched teeth.

Buck immediately dropped the instrument, unable and unwilling to do more, even if she pleaded for it. She fell slack on the bench as well, her chest rising and falling. 

“So clever, _moya zvezda_. So lovely.“ Buck realized his heart was beating fiercely.

He had driven her through hell. Now the last act: to deliver her to heaven. 

He pulled out a rabbit-fur mitt, slipping it on his left hand. He so-ever slowly stroked up first her inner thigh and flank on her right, and then to the left, finally over her purposefully-abused ass cheek and the network of welted-lines there.

Her sighs were not that of distress anymore, but of another kind entire. She closed her eyes, her arms going slack. He brushed the dark hair of her wig aside even to dust her shoulders with the soft thing.

“You can let go now, ‘Tasha,” he assured her in Russian once more. “I’ll take care of you. No one will touch you but me. You’re mine, now. Only mine.”

God, what was this? His own eyes glassing over? His own legs weak?

Whether she would remember his words or not, in whatever place her mind drifted, Bucky decided that the past, with all his swallowed jealousies, was done. He had the luxury of feeling both protective and possessive of her in their resurrected togetherness, with the deep understanding that her love and her own devotion was a gift that she chose to surrender to him fully and completely, with no illusions or desperation.

Gently, delicately, he began to untie Natasha, doing his best not to disturb her blissed-out rag-doll impression.

Now and then, Buck eyed the crowd still on the periphery around them as he worked, finding smiles and nods and other notes of approval from the club-goers as they fanned away, looking for other amusements other than to watch a spaced-out sub be tended to by the man that had just caned her silly.

As he unstrapped her cuffs, a tall woman finally approached, wearing a black t-shirt with the logo and name of the club prominently on it. “Hey. Should I call you both a cab from the front desk? We’re too below-ground for decent reception.”

Buck nodded as he took up the cane and mask from the floor. “If you could.” He then stroked Natasha’s sweat-dampened hair, wishing it was red instead. Didn’t even blink.

“Glad to help,” the dungeon-monitor replied. “You two put on quite a show.”

He didn’t know whether to be proud of that or not, so he simply nodded. “It was all for her.”

* * *

Natasha came around a bit on the ride back to the safehouse. Buck had just decided ‘screw it’ and gave him the address to the apartment building. She had cuddled wordlessly beside him for most of the twenty-minute journey down rain-slick streets, her trenchcoat hiding the fact that she was wearing next to nothing underneath. The ruins of her panties were stuffed into a pocket of his vest, a memento of the night.

“We’re headed back home, Nat,” he told her with that calm, gentle authority that he had found in this grand experiment. “Get you in a bath and put you to bed.”

“Hmmm...s’good,” she agreed, sounding drunken.

He had anticipated the scene at the club would leave them both horny-as-fuck, but instead, he felt oddly balanced and clear-headed. Natasha rarely let herself be so...so...doted on. Even when she was sick while his super-serummed immune system made it nearly impossible for him to catch anything, Natasha stubbornly refused to be nurse-maided. 

Kinda like Steve had been, in his way, back before the War.

Their bag of equipment slung over his back, he eased Natasha from the cab. She could stand now on her own two feet again, but she clung close to his left side.

It was nearly three in the morning when they got in the elevator, and they had it to themselves.

“What a night,” he remarked, somewhat disbelieving. Barnes had surely many late nights, back in Brooklyn. Some he recalled with sepia-fondness the company of a pretty dame, but nothing like _this_.

As she sat on the couch with a glass of pineapple juice she was ordered to drink, Bucky drew her a steaming bath in the modest fiberglass tub/shower unit that was nearly in every apartment in America.

He stripped off his vest and shirt, left them carelessly on the floor. 

“C’mere you,” he said, easing the empty glass from her, carefully easing her of the wig and its underpinnings. “Let’s get you in the tub.”

Natasha hissed when her ass hit the water. A good sign, he thought. She was coming back to ground.

He pinned up her hair and washed her shoulders, down her front, and over her knees that still bore the faint indentations of the ropes he had bound her with.

As the tub drained, he caught her eyes. “Natasha? Can you dry yourself and get into bed while I pick up a little and have a shower?”

It was a question, not an order. 

“I think so,” she responded, pulling herself up as he gave her a towel.

He hung up their coats, tossed their clothes-costumes-whatever in a hamper designated for dry-cleaning or special treatment, and poured himself a finger’s worth of whiskey, listening to the patter of rain on the street outside for a few minutes next to one of the curtained windows.

He caught Natasha’s towel-wrapped form open the door to the bedroom.

Tossing back the last of his drink, he went for his own shower -- the military-short variety -- to clean himself and his hair. The mirror in the bathroom was still fogged up from her bath.

When he tread to the bedroom, Natasha was already lying stomach-down, the white cotton sheets tugged haphazardly over her naked form. Her red hair washing over her neck and onto the pillow in the way that almost always made him tingle. She breathed heavily and slowly, as if already asleep. She had left the bedstand light on, either for him, or from her exhaustion.

He tugged on a pair of clean boxer-briefs and slid in next to her.

She stirred, nudging her chin over his shoulder-of-flesh, sliding her hand over his chest. 

“Why five?” she asked softly, drowsily, her eyes half-lidded and content, as if they had one of their long love-making sessions.

Unable to help himself, he pushed the rucked sheet away and just over the very sight of his caning, lifting his head off the pillow to examine it again.

The quintumplet result of his lashes centered on the left cheek of her smooth, feminine ass. The red lines, tinged with just a bit of bruising, all intersected to form a near-perfect star.

Buck kissed her on the forehead and pulled up on the covers again. “You’ll find out in the morning,” he promised and turned off the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out I can't write smut without some character-exploration thrown in.


End file.
